A Greater Destiny
by Venus Smurf
Summary: What if the senshi's destinies were even more complex than anyone dreamed?


A.N.:  I found this on my hard drive, and I want to begin posting some of it before it's lost entirely.  I'll get lynched if I don't focus mainly on my signature fic, but I'd like to start working on this one again, as well.  It has some potential, I think.

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PROLOGUE

When the knock sounded at the door of his office, Reverend Crisp sighed.  He knew the identity of the woman on the other side, and he was not eager for this meeting.  The woman represented a responsibility for which he was not entirely prepared, and he still wished he had not needed to become involved.

            He sighed again and leaned back in his chair.  "Come in," he called softly, folding his hands over his lean stomach.  The plain wooden door to his office slowly slid aside, and the slender figure of a young woman slipped through.  He stood to greet her, taking her hand briefly in his own.  She smiled softly at him, allowing him to lead her deeper into his office.  He gestured for her to sit in one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk, returning to his own seat as he turned to regard her.

            She was a pretty thing, slender and fine-boned.  Her hair was long and silvery blonde, tied up in a rather unique style in two buns on either side of her head.  Twin streams of glossy hair descended from those buns, cascading nearly to her ankles.  A light fringe of hair brushed against her forehead, curled slightly to emphasize the pixie-like shape of her face.  

Her eyes were large and very blue, the intense liquid sapphire of a summer morning.  Her features were delicate, her skin slightly pale.  She looked as fragile as spun sugar, a faery child caught in the mortal world.

            She wore a plain blue summer dress that made her face and hair all the more pale by contrast.  The dress left her perfectly turned arms and shoulders bare, but there was something about this girl that would not have left an impression of immodesty no matter what she was wearing.  Even in a church, a dress that would have been inappropriate on anyone else for the thinness of the material was not questioned on this girl.  The regal grace with which she carried herself would not allow for immodesty.  

Her feet were shod in equally plain white sandals, the straps wrapping around her slim ankles.  A delicate, expensive looking bracelet of finely strung pearls encircled one graceful wrist, somehow not clashing with the gold, crescent moon earrings she wore.  She looked, he reflected mildly, like one of the princesses from a fairy tale.  

She was an angel, one who would live forever—or die young.

            She was smiling at him, though she must have known why he had summoned her thus.  The girl's mother was not the type to leave her worries unexpressed, especially not to the one causing those worries in the first place.

            Reverend Crisp sighed yet again, and his answering smile was faint.  "Serena," he began, somewhat reassured by the placid encouragement in her eyes, "it's wonderful to see you again."  

            She nodded genially, inclining her head with stately agreement.  "And you, as well, Reverend," she answered in her soft, musical voice.  She was still smiling, though he thought he could detect the glint of laughter in her eyes.  He swallowed, knowing that she had not only guessed his purpose in meeting with her, but that she also knew the difficulties he was having with the subject.  

            Enough of this, he thought with self-directed scorn.  She's just a child.  Why am I so afraid of her?  Of course, he mused with annoyance, I'm not a psychiatrist or a councilor.  I'm not really prepared for something of this scale.  What if I fail to help her?  

            He looked at her again, and, for the first time, he noticed the subtle pain in her eyes.  His acquaintance with her was not extensive, but even he could see that some of the joyful carelessness he'd come to associate with her was missing.  Whatever was bothering her was serious, or her eyes would not be so wistfully sad.  He must help her, if he could. 

            "Let's not beat around the bush," he finally said, all trace of his hesitation gone.  He leaned forward in his chair, staring at her intently.  "I'm too old to mince words," he told her, and her smile faded slightly.  She nodded, looking away briefly.  

He breathed deeply, not having realized until that moment just how heavy and penetrating her gaze had been.  

            A tense silence filled the room, but he was too busy enjoying the freedom from her eyes to break it.  She spoke first.  "My mother came to you," she said slowly, and he nodded as she turned to look at him once more.  "What did she say?" she asked, though he suspected she already knew.

            He leaned back again, fingers rubbing gently at his temple.  "She's worried about you," he told her, trying to ease the frown of worry slowly twisting her pale lips.  "You've been rather withdrawn, apparently, and she thinks you're concealing something important."

She shrugged, and he suppressed a grimace of impatience.  "Would you like to tell me about whatever it is that's bothering you?  You're obviously troubled."  He caught her gaze with his, and his own face was slightly uneasy.  "Have you been hiding anything from your mother?" he asked softly.

            Serena sighed and looked away, fixing her eyes on the Christus painting a little behind and to the left of his desk.  "Of course I have," she answered frankly, surprising him.  "She has enough on her plate.  She doesn't need to know about my problems, especially since she can't help me in any way."  She shrugged.  "This is beyond her," she whispered, speaking more to herself than to him.  She still would not meet his eyes.

            He stared at her, but she had fallen silent again.  "Your mother is one of the most capable women I know," he told her.  "She can handle anything you do or say.  You can trust her with this.  She _is_ your mother, after all.  This is what she lives for, to help you with your problems."  

            Serena turned back to him at last, and the sorrow in her eyes was more pronounced than ever.  "Trust me, Reverend," she replied gently, not wanting to disparage his meager attempts to ease the confession she would not give.  "This is beyond anyone, even you."  

She frowned again, and her glance to him was appraising.  "Still," she murmured, "I suppose you're right.  I _do_ need to tell someone about this, and you're as trustworthy as anyone, I think."  Her lips quirked in a brief, tiredly humorous smile.  "You're going to think I'm crazy," she chuckled.  

            He spread his hands wide, keeping all inquiry from his face.  "Tell me," he urged.  "I won't judge you.  I'm only here to listen, after all."  His face was carefully nonjudgmental, compassionate.  Whatever she had to say, he would hear her out without comment.  

            One of her perfectly formed eyebrows lifted in question, but she simply nodded.  "Very well," she agreed, glancing briefly at the tiny clock on his desk.  "I have a little time before I have to leave."  

Her smile became slightly bitter.  "You're going to think I'm crazy," she repeated absently.  She shrugged again as he opened his mouth to protest, and her tapered fingers drummed lightly on the chair rest.  "I suppose, whatever you think, there's nothing you can do or say that will affect me, after today."

            His eyes narrowed slightly.  He didn't like the suspicions her words or her expression raised in him, but he would not push her for an explanation until he had heard what she had to say; he could always react after she had finished her story.  He nodded for her to begin, and she settled more comfortably in her chair.

            "I'm going to tell you a story," she began, and her voice was quietly absent.  "Perhaps, once you've heard this tale, you'll understand why I've suddenly become as distant as my mother thinks I am."  

            She glanced back at the reverend, and her eyes slowly lost focus as she slipped into her narrative.  


End file.
